


Common Cold

by Pyrrhula



Category: The Thing (1982)
Genre: Comfort, F/M, M/M, Palmer has a cold, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:47:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27282916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pyrrhula/pseuds/Pyrrhula
Summary: Palmer can be a nuisance, even to himself.
Relationships: Palmer (The Thing)/Reader
Comments: 4
Kudos: 11





	Common Cold

“I can’t believe you,” you groaned. Palmer tried to smile, but the cheekiness of it disappeared as he sniffed loudly. Frustration bubbled in you as you caught fresh oil transferring to your skin. And it wasn’t because you were a neat freak or in a bad mood- you huffed to yourself. You’d think someone as laidback as Palmer would jump at the slightest symptom that could get him out of work but no. The man was surprisingly, and annoyingly, dedicated. Not that he put up a fight when you caught him hacking up a lung on his way in from _outside_.

“Sure, you can,” he responded, quiet like a suffering radiator. He reclined against the wall, neglecting the sofa in the rec room completely. The bags under his eyes were more pronounced, and with how red his nose and ears were, well Christmas would be a cinch in Antarctica this year. He should be in no shape to argue, you thought to yourself.

“No, I’m pretty sure I can’t, I mean you didn’t even see Copper and you were just walking around like a big old exhaust pipe, coughing up a storm.” You shook your head.

“Sorry,” You gently took his hand. It reflexively tightened around yours, still a bit jittery from whatever he used to do in the sixties. You traced lines around his bony knuckles. 

“I get worried sometimes- “

“I know,” he struggled through the mucus to speak. For a moment, he bent down to kiss you but halted wide-eyed as he remembered why you were having this conversation in the first place. Instead he took the hand doing race car laps and squeezed it with both of his hands. Kneading it as if it were soft putty.

“If I lie down, would that make you feel better?” Palmer squeezed again.

“Would that make _you_ feel better?” You pressed, gently but with expectancy.

He tilted his head to the side, maybe in mock contemplation or maybe in serious thought. Thinking with a headache mustn’t be easy; you wondered how he had even managed to continue working at all. Finally, after a minute of silence and hand squeezing, he responded ever so sweetly, “Only if ya kiss me goodnight.”

Turns out, anything Palmer said with a smile on his face was possibly a scam. He couldn’t help but try and laugh at the situation, or add new conditions to the deal, before succumbing to a sneeze or a coughing fit. Even when you dragged him back to his room, he sat down and tried to use your romantic hand holding to drag you with him. You refused, a little half-heartedly. And then it was your turn to remember something. Your job. The reason you were here.

“Sorry Palm, I gotta get going.” You patted your pockets, checking for your to-do-list. Not there.

A painful sounding, but intentional, cough demanded your attention. You gave it.

Palmer tapped his forehead expectantly. He was looking up at you with those big eyes of his, and a knowing little smile on his lips. Sighing, you leaned over the bed. Giddy, he leaned over to meet you. Your lips met his forehead silently, Palmer however couldn’t help but giggle hoarsely before coughing and loudly clearing his throat. You leaned back, smoothing his hair down. Holding his head in hand you gave him a warm smile.

“I gotta go do my job before Garry gets at me,” you mumbled in a low voice.

“Just one more?” His bottom lip jutted out, like a dog begging for a treat. He pawed at your arms too. You thought about it. And you made a big show of thinking about it. You hummed and hawed before you couldn’t stand the dejected puppy eyes any longer. You gave his head another firm kiss, keeping it there as you massaged his blistering hot temples. He laid his head against your chest, rusty breaths in time with your heart, before you eventually and reluctantly pulled away.

“Dumbass,” you smiled, “get some sleep, I’ll be back with lunch once I’m done, alright?”

He made a noise of acknowledgement, then flumped back down onto the bed, already pulling his headphones on top of his red ears. You pulled the blanket up to his chin, impulsively gave his stubble a little rub and left him to it.

Screw the to-do-list, you thought. It was nearly 12pm, you’d do whatever you could manage then be back by his side by 2. After all, any longer and he might get up to do work again. One might think you to be the most annoyed person on Antarctica right now, but that wouldn't be true. First of all, that's always MacReady. Second of all, well, it made you a special kind of happy to take care of Palmer. Despite his flakiness, you knew he'd eagerly do the same.


End file.
